


The Tinsel Burial

by Fireplum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 08:08:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fireplum/pseuds/Fireplum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "The Third Guest". Sherlock deals with the changes around him the only way he knows how: by safely insulating every aspect of his life into separate compartments and locking them away in his mind palace when he needs to. Unfortunately for him, Molly has never been afraid of opening closets where skeletons might lurk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I’ll say this about winter weddings, they’re not great as far as shopping for a dress goes."

 

Mary takes a sip of hot cocoa and chuckles as Molly wraps her scarf around her shoulders.

 

“I’m sure you’ll find something, Mols,” she says. “That little number we saw in the shop window was cute, why didn’t you try it on?"

 

“It was yellow!” Molly exclaims.

 

“So? You look great in yellow!”

 

“It was… too cheery. I’d like something with a little gravitas for once, especially since it’s going to be in the middle of January. Honestly, why couldn’t you do it in spring like everyone else?”

 

“I’ve got some time off in February and we’re going to visit my aunt and uncle in Melbourne since they can’t make it to the wedding. No better season to visit Australia than the cold heart of English winter.”

 

Molly traces the edge of her cup with the tip of her finger and looks out the window. A dull sheet of rain is battering the pavement.

 

“I suppose I can’t argue with that.”

 

“Besides,” Mary adds with a sly smile, “I’m going to get a kick of seeing my snooty cousins trying to look elegant if it’s pouring and freezing like today.”

 

Molly laughs. She’s heard horror stories about brides-to-be going crazy over their weddings, but Mary treats it with almost professional detachment. Molly is pleased that she asked her to be her maid of honour – pleased and surprised, because Mary no doubt has a large pool of friends and relatives to pick from. She was quite nervous at first at having to organise something like a hen do, but Mary assured her that she didn’t want to take part in any of that nonsense and that an evening out at a bar with the bridal party would do just fine (and just to be sure, Mary would pick the bar herself).

 

They finish their cocoas and Molly goes to the loo. When she returns, Mary is typing something on her phone. Molly sits down and she can see her friend is trying to keep from grinning.

 

“I just got a text from John,” she says in a falsely aloof tone.  “Seems like the case is finally solved. They’ll be back in London by six.”

 

“Oh,” Molly says, and blushes in spite of herself. “That’s good.”

 

“At least this time you’ve got a fair warning. You know, you _could_ ask Sherlock to keep you updated on this stuff.”

 

“It’s a question of habit, I guess.”

 

Mary raises an eyebrow and Molly rummages through her bag for her purse. She’ll never tell Mary, but there’s something rather thrilling in the way he always turns up out of the blue.

 

“It’s my treat, okay?” she says, fishing out a crumpled banknote. “I’m sorry, the flat’s a mess, I have to - ”

 

“Yes, go on, I understand,” Mary says. “Call me on Friday, all right?”

 

They hug briefly and Molly steps out of the coffee shop into the rain. She’s forgotten her umbrella at home again but she barely feels the drops on her head as she rushes to the nearest Tube station.

 

 

#

 

 

Elbow-deep in soapy dishwater, Molly calculates how much time John and Sherlock will need to go back to Baker Street and adds the trip from Baker Street to her flat. That gives her enough time to change the sheets and take a shower, and besides Sherlock will probably want to have a cuppa at home before coming.

 

Once the dishes are done, she quickly tidies up the living room where Toby is sleeping in his usual spot and retreats to the bathroom. She wishes she had time for a bath after running around town with Mary under the rain all afternoon, but there’s still the sheets to deal with and she’s thinking she should also save a few minutes for a spot of makeup.

 

The water is blissfully hot. Molly lathers herself with lavender soap and tries to come up with a suitable thing to wear – casual, nothing that will look like she actually put some thought into it, but not too dowdy or fluffy either, she doesn’t want Sherlock to get the impression she’s been pressing flowers and pining for him while he was away, although why on earth would he think that? He knows fully well she’s been busy at Barts.

 

The heat is making her slightly dizzy so she turns the water off. Why is she so nervous all of a sudden? It’s not the first time Sherlock has come here, and he never made any comment on her clothes or her makeup or the cleanness or lack thereof of her flat. But somehow it’s hard not to think that he’s scanning everything, picking up every little detail, filing it away somewhere in that immense, labyrinthine brain of his.

 

Molly swipes vapour off the mirror and painstakingly untangles her long hair, then slips on her underwear and a wide tee-shirt with a cartoon cat on it that she always wears when she’s doing housework.  Sheets, then, should she put the ones with the little blue stars on them - her favourite – or the dark green ones she got on sale at M&S? The green are undeniably more elegant. She’ll need a chair from the kitchen to reach the top shelf of her wardrobe, but perhaps if she simply climbs onto one of the lower shelves…

 

She hoists herself precariously, stretches her hand towards the green sheets and tugs. The sheets fall in a heap on her face and make her lose her balance, causing her to trip backwards and knock into the corner of her nightstand.

 

“Shit!” she curses. “That was bloody stupid, Hooper.”

 

“Are you in need of any assistance?”

 

Molly freezes at the deep baritone voice coming from her living room. She takes a moment to compose herself and walks out of her bedroom.

 

Sherlock is sitting in her armchair and calmly petting Toby who has curled up on his knees. He’s taken off his coat and his hair is slightly damp from the rain. He must’ve come here directly from the railway station, she realises, and slipped in while she was in the shower. (She gave him her keys months ago, after he was stranded outside her flat one night, got tired of waiting and picked the lock, prompting the neighbours to call the police. _You might as well secure your door with tape and a few paper clips_ , he’d told her afterwards, utterly unfazed by the incident, and insisted she get a sturdier lock.)

 

“Sorry, I was just – just getting something from my wardrobe,” she says with a smile. “No harm done, except to my hip perhaps.”

 

He turns to look at her, his pale eyes steady and intent, and she suddenly remembers she’s wearing nothing but a ridiculous tee-shirt that’s at least two sizes too big.

 

“Did you have a nice trip?” she asks, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

 

“The trip in itself was uninteresting,” he says. “The case, on the other hand, was… _amusing_.”

 

“Amusing? How so? I mean, Mary told me about the victims all having a blackened tongue and I did some research but…”

 

“Yes, a fascinating reaction to a certain combination of noxious products I’d like to delve into a bit further if you can get me any spare tongues,” Sherlock interrupts quickly. “Sadly, your flat is too small to set up a proper working area for the experiment I have in mind.”

 

“Oh. Would you like to go to Barts now? I was just about to change, so if you want we can -”

 

“No. Don’t be silly.”

 

He picks Toby up and sets him on the ground, ignoring his warble of protest, then rises from the armchair.

 

“Well, just let me change then,” Molly continues. “Help yourself to something to drink in the meantime and -”

 

“Molly,” he warns, walking up to her. His voice has dropped a pitch lower to a seductive rumble and it sends a shiver up her spine. “I said, don’t be silly.”

 

He grabs her by the waist and presses her flush against him, making her feel how ready he already is for her, then pulls her into a deep kiss. Her core instantly melts into a puddle of heat but she’s determined to save face.

 

“Sherlock, wait,” she breathes as his mouth slides down to her neck. “I can’t – this tee-shirt, it’s too embarrassing -”

 

“Completely irrelevant, seeing as I’m about to divest you of it.”

 

“But… but the sheets, they’re dirty, I have to -”

 

“Good, then it won’t matter if we get them a bit dirtier, will it? Changing them now would only defeat the purpose.”

 

Before Molly can answer, he practically rips her tee-shirt off and grips her thighs, lifting her up as if she weighed nothing and carrying her into the bedroom. Then he plops her down on the edge of the bed unceremoniously and gets on his knees in between her legs. His mouth meets hers again before she has time to catch her breath and she hears him struggling with his belt buckle.

 

“Slow down,” she says against his lips, “we don’t have to –“

 

“Can’t,” he mumbles. “Too long.”

 

His hand glides against her thigh and plunges into her knickers, and a glimmer of triumph lights his eyes. It’s quite clear she doesn’t need any more time than he does and she would be embarrassed if she weren’t already overtaken by the sensation of his deft fingers making short work of her.

 

“Oh God, _Sherlock_ ,” she moans, unable to contain herself.

 

“You like this,” he whispers hoarsely. “Tell me you like this, Molly.”

 

“I love it, don’t stop, _please_ , don’t stop…”

 

This is all the prompting he needs. A moment later, her knickers are discarded on the floor, and Sherlock is lost within her.

 

 

#

 

 

This has become like a routine of sorts, Molly reflects the next day while Sherlock sleeps soundly in her bed and she has a light lunch alone in the kitchen. But even after a few months, she’s still baffled at the hunger he displays whenever he comes back from a case – not for food, but for _her_. He’s so ravenous that he doesn’t even bother to undress, not at first, although he always manages to tear her clothes away. It’s rushed and messy and it makes her so dizzy and breathless with pleasure that she could almost cry.

 

Afterwards, while Sherlock takes a shower, Molly usually orders take-out. Sherlock likes to eat sitting naked in her armchair (she hasn’t yet gotten used to his complete lack of embarrassment at exposing his body to her, not that she’s exactly complaining, the man is carved like a marble statue) while she watches TV and he vehemently criticizes every single show that comes on.

 

Sometimes, if he feels like getting dressed again, he takes her out to one of two places he deems acceptable in her neighbourhood. Last night was Chinese, and they ate Peking duck while he explained the case to her in detail.

 

“What about you?” he asked after he was done. “How was your week?”

 

Molly nearly laughed because the expression on his face was so dutiful and she could almost hear John in there admonishing him to ask after her so as not to hurt her feelings, but she just smiled and told him about dress shopping with Mary and the new microscope she wanted to get for the lab.

 

Sherlock made a visible and valiant effort to listen to her as long as he could, but by the time the fortune cookies arrived with the check she could see him fidgeting in his chair and that greedy look was starting to return to his eyes, so they hurried back to her flat.

 

It’s always slower the second time around. He likes to watch her undress, and she tries her best not to make it as sloppy and clumsy as it usually is when she’s alone. But when they’re tangled in each other again, the urgency comes back, and he clings to her so hard that it sometimes leaves bruises on her skin, not to mention dark circles under her eyes. He hardly ever lets her sleep, he reaches for her in the middle of the night until he’s finally satiated and crashes down on her mattress.

 

It scares her a little bit sometimes. It doesn’t take a professional to recognise an addictive personality, and John’s told her bits and pieces about Sherlock’s past. But it can’t hurt as long as they keep it in check, she figures. And besides, when Sherlock’s immersed in his works he can go weeks without it, something she struggles with much more than he does, ironically.

 

Molly puts her plate and glass in the sink then gets ready for work. When Sherlock wakes up, she’ll already be gone for her shift at Barts. When she returns, he’ll envelop her in his arms, surround her entirely, drink her in. A few hours she’ll leave again for work. And then he’ll be gone, back to his perfectly tailored clothes, back to his cases and experiments, back to John, because he never stays more than two days (except one time that summer, but she’d rather not think about that now, somehow she feels it’s not appropriate for broad daylight). 

 

Before she goes, Molly slips quietly into the bedroom. Sherlock is sleeping on his back, his face like those of stone angels in churches or graveyards, his cheek soft and cool under her lips when she bends down to kiss him. He doesn’t stir, but she can’t help but wonder if he knows she performs this small domestic gesture every time she leaves. Most importantly, though, she wonders if he minds.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about taking so long to update! Real life gets in the way sometimes. I'll try to post as much of this story as I can before the beginning of Season 3 just it case it becomes horribly A/U afterwards.

“John, there’s no use insisting. I absolutely refuse to go through with this absurd plan.”

 

Sherlock slams the door of the cab as if to punctuate his statement, but John seems unimpressed. He simply keeps looking at him over the roof of the car with a wry smile.

 

“I’m not insisting – I’m _ordering_. It’s my bachelor party and you have to do what makes _me_ happy.”

 

“What? That wasn’t in the contract!”

 

“There was no contract. It’s an unspoken agreement between the groom and his best man.”

 

Sherlock scowls and joins John on the sidewalk. “That doesn’t make your idea any less idiotic. If we invite Mycroft, it’ll spoil the whole evening.”

 

“Come on, Sherlock, you only invited Lestrade and Mike so far,” John says as they start towards the entrance of Barts. “I think we can do with another guest. Besides, Mycroft helped keep you alive during your exile, and I’d like to thank him for that.”

 

“So just send him a… gift basket of some sort,” Sherlock retorts, waving his hand dismissively. “Preferably with hair and skin products, heaven knows he needs them.”

 

“Besides, think of how much fun it’ll be to get him drunk.”

 

Sherlock snorts. His brother could never hold his liquor, and he has to admit the image of Mycroft crawling under a table in his tweed suit has a certain appeal.

 

“We’ll talk about this later,” he says. “Right now there are more pressing matters. Cadaver was found this morning near Albert Bridge, supposedly shot in the head and dumped in the Thames.”

 

“Sounds a bit dull – for you, I mean. Why did Lestrade give you the case?”

 

“The man’s been identified. According to official records, he already died three years ago, and it was one of _my_ cases. A funny little coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

 

They enter the building and make their way to the morgue. Sherlock finds his heart beating slightly faster than usual, something he finds distracting and annoying but that he can’t stop through willpower alone (although he’s read of Buddhist monks in Nepal who have ancestral techniques to control their heart rate, perhaps he should look into it for his visits to Barts). It will subside after a while, once he’s immersed in his work, but his first glimpse of Molly is always accompanied by heightened physical activity – quickening pulse, breath falling short.

 

It’s all the more peculiar that the sight is nothing if not familiar to him: Molly sitting at the table and jotting down some notes, her hair pulled back in a twist, her cherry-red top peaking out from under her lab coat – a slightly lower cut than usual, he notes, which is surprising given the cold weather. She looks up at them and breaks into her standard friendly smile, although Sherlock can’t help but notice that it takes on a slightly different quality when her eyes meet his – less dazzling but more intense, somehow.

 

“Hi Molly, mind if we use the lab for a while?” John asks.

 

“Oh no, not at all, I was just finishing a report on a post-mortem – nothing to write home about, just a good old-fashioned stroke,” she adds with a little laugh.

 

“Thanks a million. By the way, that top looks very pretty on you. Is it new? Mary said you’d gone shopping together.”

 

A tinge of pink colours Molly’s cheeks and Sherlock feels a flare of annoyance.

 

“John, would you mind keeping the trivialities to a minimum? We have an experiment to run on fingerprints, if you can bear to tear yourself away from Molly’s cleavage for a moment.”

 

John rolls his eyes. “Piss off, mate. At least I was polite enough to say hello.”

 

“My greetings are _implied_ , it wastes less time,” Sherlock replies tersely.

 

Perhaps that’s what causes the rush, he reflects as he slips his coat off. Primitive pride at being the only one to know what Molly looks like in her barest, most honest form, her clothes discarded and her hair undone. John can look all he wants, neither he nor any other man will be granted to do anything else than imagine. A hot burst of satisfaction blooms in his chest at the thought that Molly is _his_ , entirely his, entirely given, and all of a sudden he wants to stride over to her and pull her against him and kiss her, right there in front of John and anyone else who would happen to drop by.

 

But it simply wouldn’t do. They’re here to work, all of them, as he so rightfully reminded John just a second ago. Sherlock straightens his jacket and settles in front of a microscope.

 

It reassures him that whatever might occur between Molly and him, their interactions at Barts are much the same as they always have been. In fact, they’re perhaps even more professional than they were before, as he is somehow wary of hurting her with an off-handed remark and sticks to asking her for chemicals or slides or results.

 

John, on the other hand, has no such qualms of mixing business with pleasure, and today he is particularly chatty.

 

“Would you be free for dinner at Baker Street next week?” he asks Molly. “We’ve finally put the last touches to 221C and we thought we’d have a bit of a celebration.”

 

“Really? That’s wonderful! I’m glad you finished the renovation before the wedding. I don’t know how Mary managed to handle both at once.”

 

“She’s fantastic at this sort of stuff. It’s just a question being organised, I suppose.”

 

“Or compulsively controlling,” Sherlock mutters.

 

John snorts. “Sherlock is just angry because Mary wouldn’t let him fire shots at the wall while the construction workers were there.”

 

“In any case, I’d love to come to dinner. I could make dessert, if you want.”

 

Sherlock presses his lips together to keep from pointing out that Molly barely has the culinary skill to set jelly properly. If John cares so much for politeness, let him handle this.

 

“Oh, well… I’m pretty sure Mary has already planned something, but I’ll ask her, yeah?”

 

“Sherlock… you’ll be here too, won’t you?” Molly asks.

 

Sherlock glances away from his microscope. She’s looking at him with the sort of nervous hopefulness that is so specific to her. Something inside of him quivers and opens, but his face remains still.

 

“If nothing of greater importance comes up, yes.”

 

“And if you know what’s good for you,” John says. “Don’t worry, Molly, I’ll tie him to his chair if I have to.”

 

“That’s never stopped me before,” Sherlock quips.

 

“Okay, I’m going to go get some coffee,” Molly says. “John, would you like a cup?”

 

“Yeah, that would be great, thanks.”

 

She doesn’t ask Sherlock, yet he knows she’ll bring him one just the same. She no longer feels the need to ask him, simply because she already knows what he wants; she’s provided him with it at Barts, but also at her place, setting down a cup in front of him in the kitchen when he’s just rolled out of bed and he’s rested and content and his hands are already itching to make a grab at her. For all of John’s insistence on being polite, there is a certain satisfaction in no longer needing formalities.

 

 

#

 

 

There’s nothing left in the bottle of Saint-Emilion but the dredges, and the claret and food combined makes 221C warmer than it’s ever been (although the brand new heating system Mary and John spent a fortune on also helps). Sherlock rolls up his shirtsleeves and settles back on his chair next to Molly.

 

“I think it’s very kind of you to think of Mycroft,” Mary says, reaching out to smooth out invisible wrinkles from John’s shirt. “That poor man, he always looks so lonely! Nothing but his umbrella and his paperwork to keep him company. Why isn’t he married yet?”

 

“I could make you a list if you have a few hours to spare,” Sherlock grumbles. “But to keep things short, I can assure you that your pity is grossly misplaced.”

 

“Have a heart, Sherlock,” John says, his voice loud and giddy with wine. “Maybe we can set him up with one of Mary’s friends from the bridal party!”

 

“A kind gesture, John, but given that they’re all women, I very much doubt that you’ll be successful, not counting the fact that, as I’ve been given to understand, the whole point of a bachelor party is precisely _not_ to have the bridesmaids present.”

 

Molly places a hand on his arm. “Actually, Mary thought it might be fun to all meet up afterwards. It’s not like you’ll be spending the night at a strip club, right?”

 

“That depends if I let Greg Lestrade choose the venue.”

 

Molly smiles. “Well, we’ve already reserved a table at Bajas, that bar in Finsbury. But Mary, you have to give me your friend Vivian’s number, she’s the only one who didn’t reply to my email.”

 

Mary wrinkles her nose. “Right. I suppose I don’t have a choice.”

 

“Vivian? Who’s that?” John asks.

 

“My friend from school, darling, you know? The one who lives in Surrey? She’s a dreadful snob but she invited me to her wedding and to her son’s christening, and her parents are good friends with mine, so I have to include her in the bridal party.”

 

“How tedious it must be to follow these inane social obligations,” Sherlock says. “You don’t like her, and yet you’re forced to include her in an event specifically designed for your personal enjoyment? It doesn’t make a whit of sense.”

 

“It’s just returning a favour, that’s all,” Molly says softly. “There’s nothing illogical about that.”

 

John nods. “Well said, Mols. Should we open another bottle?”

 

“Now, Doctor Watson, you’re working tomorrow,” Mary scolds him. “Let’s have coffee instead.”

 

After coffee’s done, John and Mary clear the table, refusing Molly’s offer of help, and leave Molly and Sherlock to bask in the comfortable atmosphere of their new home.

 

“It’s getting late, isn’t it? I should get going,” Molly says after a few moments, yet she lingers a bit at the table.

 

Sherlock senses she’s waiting for him to ask her to stay over. There’s more than enough room in 221B now that John and Mary have moved out, and the perspective of having Molly’s soft body between his sheets is indeed a tempting prospect. But when he started this he knew there would have to be strict boundaries or he would get in over his head, and so he established two rules: never to let it interfere with his work (and as such 221B is off-limits as he has several on-going experiments there) and never to stay at Molly’s more than forty-eight hours in a row (a rule he eschewed once in August during the heat wave, but the sight of her in those flimsy things that could barely be called clothes drove him to insanity and he kept following her around the flat, tearing them off as soon as she put them on). He nods and gets up.

 

“I’ll walk you out and call a cab for you, then.”

 

Molly smiles but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thank you. So… I suppose you’ll drop by at Barts this week?”

 

“Probably. The previous case was promising but it only us three days after all, so Lestrade gave me something with a bit more meat – criminal ring, far more interesting.”

 

“Oh, right. It might take a while then.” She gives a small, breathy sigh and hugs her chest. “Well, I’ll go get my things.”

 

Sherlock watches her as she takes her coat and bag from the rack, suddenly loathe to let her leave. Would it be so terrible if he didn’t follow the rules just this once? If he allowed himself to give in to that tingle of need he’s starting to feel? He shakes his head. He mustn’t, or else there’s no point in having rules in the first place.

 

On the other hand… It is true that he didn’t come see her after he solved the last case… And he hasn’t started on the new one yet, not really, so this could be considered as a break in his work, and doesn’t he usually allow himself to spend some time with Molly then?

 

“If you’re free tomorrow night, I could drop by,” he blurts out.

 

Molly turns around while she buttons her coat. “Tomorrow? Aren’t you working?”

 

“I need to… clear my head first.”

 

“Oh.” She blushes and a little smile plays on her lips. “In that case, it’s fine, of course. I haven’t got anything planned.”

 

“Wonderful. I’ll be there at eight.”

 

Molly walks over to him and plants a light kiss on his mouth, then goes to say goodbye to Mary and John. Sherlock is pleased with his own cleverness, pleased that he can keep both Molly and himself satisfied without having to compromise the system he put into place, but underneath, something is gnawing at him. An old ghost from the past, whispering that once you start trying to find excuses, the tipping point isn’t far ahead.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Season 3, everyone, and a happy New Year as well. (Just so you know, the story will continue as planned and the remaining chapters will be entirely spoiler-free.)

Molly sets her drink down in front of her and once again scans the table over the tapas plates to see if she's got everyone's name right - Laura, that's Mary's sister-in-law, and then there's Kate and Evelyn, the childhood friends, and then Fiona from uni, the one with the short brown hair and smoky eyes who keeps going outside to have a cigarette. Mary sits in the middle of them, beaming in her bold, strapless red dress, and though the meal has barely started, they're already on their third round of cocktails.

 

"Oh, come on, Mar, you've got to tell us about your first night with John!" says Kate, margarita in hand. "That's what hen dos are for!"

 

"What do you want me to say? It was fine - no, it was wonderful, actually."

 

"You can do better than that! Give us the dirty details!"

 

Molly's not sure Mary wants to talk about it, as it was during the time that Sherlock was gone and John was just getting over a severe bout of depression, but before she can intervene, they're interrupted by a tall blond woman in a stylish black dress.

 

"Mary, sweetie, I'm so sorry I'm late!"

 

"Oh, Vivian, you made it!" Mary exclaims. "We were starting to wonder..."

 

"I've had quite a day, I had to go shopping, then pick Peter up from his soccer lesson, and then wait until Stephen got back from work..."

 

"That's all right, take a seat. You already know Laura, and that's Kate..." Mary makes the introductions and there's a lot of half-standing and cheek kissing. "And that's Molly, the maid of honour."

 

"Yes, I'm the one you talked to on the phone," Molly says with a little wave, sitting up awkwardly.

 

Vivian flashes her a dazzling smile, almost as dazzling as the impressive diamond ring on her finger. "Right, the doctor! Of course! I'm sorry I didn't reply to your email, my days are so busy... Oh, that dress is cute as button! Simply charming."

 

Molly glances down at her bright orange dress with the sweetheart neckline and the full skirt. She thought it would go well with the Spanish theme of the bar, but now she wishes she'd chosen something more elegant.

 

Vivian sits among them and prattles on about her husband's impossible office hours in the City and the oodles of activities her son takes part in. It doesn't take ten minutes for her to take out a picture of the three of them from her wallet - one of those studio portraits usually sent with Christmas wishes  - and show it to the other girls who all dissolve into compliments (all but Fiona, who stands up and goes outside for another cigarette). Mary meets Molly's eyes and Molly can instantly tell what she's thinking, and it's not something either of them would want Vivian to hear.

 

"What an adorable little boy," says Laura. "Mine is still in the runny nose, crying all the time stage, we can't get good pictures like that."

 

"And your husband is really fit," Evelyn says cheekily. "Look at those arms!"

 

Vivian slips the picture back into her wallet with a falsely modest expression. "Well, he _was_ captain of his rowing crew at uni. He's more into golf now."

 

"If only I could convince Jamie to go to the gym once in a while," Kate sighs, and takes another sip of margarita. "But he's more interested in watching sports on the telly with a can of lager."

 

"Oh, Stephen invites the lads over all the time when there's a game on," Vivian says. "What can you do? Boys will be boys, even with an Oxbridge degree."

 

They all giggle and Molly forces a laugh. The conversation going on around her makes her feel like an alien. If she told them about Sherlock watching TV naked in her living room after solving a gruesome murder case, they would probably think she's mental.

 

She wonders what time it is, and when John's bachelor party is going to get here. It's been five days since she last saw Sherlock, five days since he came alone to Barts after disappearing for two weeks. He spent hours bent over his microscope in silence, only to burst out in jubilant exclamations when he finally got the result he wanted, almost making her fall off her chair in surprise.

 

"That's it! Oh, this is brilliant, Molly, just brilliant!"

 

"Really? What did you find?"

 

He went off about paint samples and map coordinates and false identities, too quickly for Molly to follow his reasoning.

 

"Does that mean you solved the case?" she asked hesitantly.

 

"Not quite yet, but this is a phenomenal breakthrough. Yes, I've got them now."

 

"What will you do next?"

 

But instead of replying, he pulled her close and kissed her hard on the mouth. When she felt his fingers pop open the buttons of her lab coat and work their way under her shirt, she broke the kiss, breathless.

 

"Come - come over tonight and - "

 

"Can't, meeting with Mycroft."

 

Then he led her into her office, slammed the door shut and had her right there on the desk, pining her wrists roughly behind her back. Between the rattling of the furniture and their moans of pleasure, they'd made enough noise to wake the dead, but thankfully the morgue was so isolated that even the living hadn't made note of it.

 

The waiter brings more cocktails. Molly tears herself away from her thoughts and dives in the tapas plate, concerned with the food-to-alcohol ratio on the table. If she doesn't eat something, she's going to be drunk in no time.

 

"I bet John is fit too," Kate tells Mary. "You can't go wrong with an army man."

 

"Well, he's got good aim, I'll give you that," Mary replies with a little grin, and the girls cheer.

 

"What about you, Molly?" Kate asks. "Have you got a boyfriend?"

 

"I... um..." She hesitates. She wouldn't call Sherlock her boyfriend, although they're certainly in some sort of relationship. But how can she properly describe it to them? Besides, it's not really official, and not only because Sherlock loathes public displays of affection. He also wants to keep it out of the gossip sheets, whose interest in him rekindles once in a while. "Not really, no."

 

"Oh, that's a shame!" Vivian exclaims. "Too busy with work?"

 

"Are you implying that a single woman is automatically hindered by her professional activity?" says Fiona, who's just sat back down at the table.

 

"What about that famous detective John works with?" Evelyn exclaims. "Don't tell me you never tried to date him, he's gorgeous!"

 

Molly blushes scarlet but thankfully Mary comes to her rescue.

 

"Sherlock Holmes is already taken, unfortunately," she says.

 

"Really? I didn't hear about it in the papers."

 

"He likes to keep things private, but he's entirely monogamous."

 

Fiona shrugs. "Personally, I've never believed in monogamy."

 

All of a sudden, Molly feels a pressing need to go the bathroom and excuses herself, hobbling over to the ladies' in her high heels. When she comes out of the stall, Mary is waiting for her.

 

"Are you all right, Mols?"

 

"Yeah, I'm fine. It was just getting a bit weird talking about Sherlock."

 

"I didn't lie, though, did I?"

 

Molly laughs. "Strictly speaking, no."

 

"I'm sorry it's such a drag. I mean, I haven't seen the girls in forever, and our lives are so different now... I knew that already, of course, but I hadn't realised just how much."

 

"It's fine, really. They're all very nice."

 

Mary puts her arm around her and gives her shoulder a squeeze. "I wish you would bitch about people behind their backs once in a while, it would make me feel so much better."

 

 

#

 

 

Although Mycroft has barely touched his whisky glass since the beginning of the evening, the look of discomfort on his face is more than enough to keep Sherlock entertained.

 

"Come on, toss it back," says Lestrade. "You can't let fine whisky like this go to waste."

 

Mycroft wrinkles his nose and takes a tiny sip.

 

"I suspect he doesn't want to finish it in case the waitress brings him another one and bends a little too close to him," Sherlock mutters to John.

 

"You're too hard on your brother," John replies. "He's just not used to... all this."

 

Although the establishment Sherlock selected is high-class - none of that awful pop music blaring from speakers and a decent spirits selection for a start - the waitresses have apparently undergone a drastic selection based on their physical appearance and their apparel is sufficiently skimpy to make this an appropriate venue for a bachelor party. Mike and Lestrade, in any case, have been liberal in expressing their approval by gawping every time one of them passes near the table.

 

"I must admit I'm surprised that you're familiar with this kind of bar, Sherlock," Mycroft says. "I presume you find the service satisfactory?"

 

"Don't be ridiculous. This is all for John's party, nothing more."

 

Mycroft peers at him and traces his finger along the edge of his glass. "I don't know. It seems as though you've changed of late... Notably when it comes to matters that once seemed to leave you indifferent..."

 

"Mycroft, kindly stop beating around the bush and get to the point."

 

"Your - ah - relations with Doctor Hooper."

 

Sherlock keeps very still. Next to him, John is laughing about something with Mike and Lestrade is trying to catch the attention of the waitress.

 

"How do you know about that?" Sherlock asks. "No. Silly question. _Why_?"

 

"National security issue. Rest assured, your... intimacy has been preserved."

 

"Surely you don't expect me to thank you."

 

"What I couldn't find out are your exact intentions. Is this just a fling, or is it serious?"

 

"How is _that_ a national security issue?"

 

"It's not. But you're my little brother, after all, and I care about your happiness. All the clues indicate a rather strong attachment. Are you planning to make things official soon?"

 

"That's none of your business, and none of the British government's concern either!" Sherlock snaps, the heat rising to his face.

 

Mycroft doesn't insist, and Sherlock gets the unsettling feeling that his brother has guessed that he himself doesn't know how to answer the question. Frustrated, he takes his glass of Fernet and finishes it in one gulp.

 

"Attaboy, Sherlock," Letrade says, patting him on the back.

 

The liquor leaves a bitter taste on his tongue and a burning trail in his throat, but somehow it makes him relax a bit and he orders another one on the rocks. The waitress slips him a wink before she turns away.

 

"When are we supposed to meet Mary and the others?" asks Mike.

 

John squints at his watch. "It's ten thirty. We should probably get there while all of them are still standing."

 

"Let's just finish our glasses and go, then."

 

Sherlock sips his drink and observes Mycroft on the sly. He's finally finished his whisky and his face has taken on a nice reddish hue.

 

"I believe it's time I leave you gentlemen," he says.

 

"Nonsense," Sherlock replies with a glimpse in John's direction. "The party simply wouldn't be the same without you. I'm sure you'll like Mary's friends."

 

"All right, boys, bottoms up," Lestrade says.

 

They finish their drinks and stand from the table. The three glasses of Fernet Sherlock has had strike back with a vengeance and plummet to his head in a hot burst, making him topple slightly. He manages to hold it together as they head outside, but once inside the town car, one of two that Mycroft provided (Sherlock conjectured that this was the real reason behind John's generous invitation, although John swears he didn't know), his stomach tightens and his head spins and he can't decide whether it's pleasant or disagreeable.

 

Fortunately, the bar isn't very far, but as soon as they cross the doors, they are assaulted by loud music and flashing lights, typically the type of nuisance Sherlock was hoping to avoid. What was Mary thinking? Mycroft sniffs in disdain and tightens his tie.

 

"I think they're in the back," John bellows.

 

He leads them across the crowd, searching for his fiancée and her friends, and they finally spot them at a large circular table.

 

"Oh, you're here!" Mary exclaims, stretching her arms out to John. "Help me up, darling."

 

There are a lot of overexcited squeals and smiles and greetings. Sherlock's vision bounds from one friend to another. The alcohol seems to have excited and muddled his senses at the same time and a jumble of information leaps to his mind: _childhood friend, unhappily married, dyed her hair five to seven days ago - blond woman in her forties, one child, probably overweight in secondary school, probably "Vivian", unless it's the sister? - other childhood friend, has latched on to Mycroft's neck, never looked so uncomfortable since that time Mother gave us the Talk, John's estimate on party's alcohol consumption about half an hour off_...

 

And then, Molly. Red lipstick, hair caught in a side ponytail that cascades down one shoulder, a bright orange dress and if he's not mistaken (and he knows he's not, having sufficiently observed Molly's breasts and undergarments from up close) a bra that enhances her chest slightly so that the soft curves are pushed just above the neckline. She looks lovely - no, _devastating_. The memory of their last encounter flashes through Sherlock's mind in all its rushed, messy, noisy glory and he closes his eyes for a moment.

 

"Well, I was hoping John would bring his colleague along."

 

Sherlock startles to find a petite brunette - _eats organic, works in an NGO, involved in a non-committal relationship_ \- looking up at him, a seductive smile playing on her lips. They're still wet from her drink and she smells of cigarette smoke.

 

"I'm Fiona," she says. "Pleased to meet you."

 

Sherlock glances toward Molly. Their gazes meet, then she sees Fiona and nervously tips back her cocktail.

 

"So... Mary told me there was a funny story behind your famous hat, what is it?"

 

"Nothing, it's a stage prop someone happened to photograph me with and then John posted the picture on his blog," Sherlock replies shortly. Lestrade has gone to sit next to Molly and is kissing her cheek just a little too enthusiastically.

 

"It's so crazy how social media blows everything out of proportion these days, isn't it? God, it's boiling in here. I'm going outside for a smoke, would you -"

 

"Yes, please do," he says, then walks around her.

 

He's about to reach the table and tell Lestrade to shove off when he sees his brother standing a little further away. Mycroft has untangled himself from Mary's inebriated friend and is watching Sherlock with a little smirk of amusement, and a smug expression that seems to say, _I told you so_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone! It feels a bit weird to write about the stag night and the wedding after seeing the canonical ones on the show, but there you go. I also wanted to tell everyone who's watching season 3 and freaking out like I am about "His Last Vow", be strong! Whatever happens, we'll always have fanfic.

"Did you know that in France, bachelor parties are called _burials_? Pretty grim, right? Although I suppose that doesn't impress London's top pathologist."

 

Molly giggles at Lestrade's words and leans slightly into him. Sherlock is sitting on her left and suddenly feels the impulse to grasp her arm and pull her back towards him. If it weren't for Mycroft's insufferable awareness, he probably would, and cuff the detective inspector over the ears as well.

 

"That can't be true," Molly says. "Why would they call them that?"

 

"Actually, the full expression is _enterrement de vie de garçon_ ," Sherlock snaps. " _Burial of a boy's life_ , signifying the symbolic death of youth with the entry into potential fatherhood but commonly understood as a last chance to have fun before slipping on the shackles of matrimony. Get your facts straight."

 

He takes a gulp of vermouth - a dreadful subpar brand, but the only drink available that didn't make him want to gag, as he duly informed the waiter taking his order - and slams the glass back down on the table.

 

"Easy there, tiger," Lestrade says with a chuckle, holding up his hands. "We're all here to have a good time."

 

"Oh yes, it's tremendous fun to hear you putting your deplorable pick-up lines to the test," Sherlock growls.

 

Lestrade gapes at him. "Are you implying that -"

 

"Sherlock, _please_ ," Molly hisses, her eyes gleaming with panic. "Greg was just trying to be funny."

 

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest and looks away. The alcohol roils in his veins and stirs his fury, and all of a sudden he hates them all - Lestrade and his banter, Mycroft and his smirks, John and his bachelor party, Molly and her cleavage. It's like a conspiracy to put him between a rock and a hard place.

 

The dippy brunette who tried to come on to him has returned and the smell of Camel Lights wafts over to him. Maybe he should accept her offer after all, that would show them.

 

"Listen, mate," Lestrade says, "I don't know what you're on about but -"

 

Molly lays a hand on his arm. "It's nothing, Greg, just forget it."

 

" _Forget it_?" Sherlock erupts. "Right, let's forget the whole thing! I'll leave you two alone now, shall I? Perhaps I can call a cab for you as well?"

 

"Sherlock, stop it!" Molly exclaims.

 

He rises from his seat, ignoring her, and stalks away with as much dignity as the vermouth allows him, which isn't much. He stumbles and grabs the edge of the table. A hand lands on his arm and holds him up.

 

"What do you think you're doing?" Mycroft asks.

 

"Going outside for a cigarette."

 

"You most certainly are not. Look at you, you're drunk!"

 

"Trying to be Mother again, are you? Sod off!"

 

"Okay, fellows, take it easy," John suddenly intervenes. "Sherlock, are you feeling all right?"

 

"I think it's time he go home if you don't want tomorrow's headlines to be about a gruesome bar fight between the famous detective Sherlock Holmes and one of Scotland Yard's finest," Mycroft says.

 

"Scotland Yard's finest _womaniser_ ," Sherlock adds with a sneer.

 

"Oh, for heaven's sake..." John gives a heavy sigh. "All right, Sherlock. Let's go."

 

"It's okay, John, I'll take care of it."

 

Molly's sweet voice breaks through the pounding music and she slips an arm around Sherlock's waist. Despite his resentfulness of being carted away like a child, he surrounds her thin shoulders with his arm possessively, hoping that Lestrade is getting a proper eyeful.

 

Molly leads him outside to one of the town cars and asks the driver to take them to Baker Street.

 

"You don't have to come with me, you know," Sherlock growls as the car starts. "You seemed to be enjoying yourself quite a lot in there."

 

"I was," Molly retorts. "And so was everyone else, until you started to act like an arse."

 

"Oh, _I_ was the one acting like an arse? That's rich!"

 

"Yes, you were! I swear, sometimes you just... misbehave as if you were ten years old, it's infuriating!"

 

Molly's cheeks are flushed and her chest is palpitating in anger, straining the already tight fit of the bodice of her dress. All of a sudden, Sherlock loses interest in the argument. Intriguing. The alcohol seems to have not only lifted his social inhibitions but his sexual hindrances as well. He raises an eyebrow. "That's an interesting choice of words."

 

Molly shakes her head. "I don't care if you find it interesting, I just want you to listen for once!"

 

He ignores the outrage in her tone and creeps closer to her with a wicked smile. The idea of debauching a car Mycroft provided is deliciously ironic. If the British government really wants to know what's going on between Molly and him, the least he can do is give them their money's worth.

 

He slides a hand up Molly's leg, her skin cold and soft under his palm. Her eyes widen.

 

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

 

"I'm misbehaving, just like you said."

 

He sinks to his knees in front of her and folds back her dress. Molly squirms in her seat but he holds her in place, both hands gripping her backside.

 

"Are you mad? The driver could - _oh_!"

 

Sherlock kisses the inside of her thigh and trails his lips up to the lacy edge of her underwear, nipping at it playfully.

 

“There’s a glass pane separating the two compartments. What are you afraid of?”

 

“But – but – you can’t – in a _car_ -”

 

His fingers play with the elastic band and dip underneath, his thumb gliding down until it finds her sensitive core. "Do you want me to stop?"

 

Molly clasps his shoulders, reeling. "Sherlock..."

 

"What's your answer, Molly Hooper?” he mumbles against her. “Do you want me to stop or not?"

 

She gives a little moan and her hips buck up involuntarily, allowing him to roll her underwear off and discard it on the floor.

 

"I'll take that as a _no_."

 

He starts slow at first, teasing her with the tip of his tongue, then dives in in earnest, sucking and nibbling to his heart's content, and hers as well, if the whimpers that escapes her are any indication. Her hands flutter up to his hair and she arches against him. 

 

"My, my, aren't we greedy," he rumbles.

 

"Please... keep going..."

 

He hastily obliges her. Her scent, her taste, her cries of pleasure mixed with the flares of alcohol swirling through his mind make him more aroused than he's ever been. He unabashedly laps at her until he feels her muscles start to quiver under his mouth.

 

"Oh Sherlock," Molly breathes. "Don't stop... don't stop..."

 

He keeps a firm hold on her until she's done then falls back, panting, and returns to his seat. It's only then that he realises that the car has stopped in front of Baker Street, and he has no idea how long it's been there.

 

Molly turns to him, breathless, her lids heavy. She doesn't have to ask if she can stay at his place tonight. Sherlock has already bounded from the car to open the door for her.

 

 

#

 

 

The morning light filters through the blinds and Molly squints in the semi-darkness, her head aching and heavy. She sits up in the bed, her hair a bundle of tangles, and it takes a split second for her to realise where she is – Baker Street. _Sherlock’s room_. She wakes up fully with the realisation that she stayed over for the first time.

 

Sherlock is sprawled on the mattress next to her, his face buried in his pillow. The alarm clock on the nightstand reads half past noon.

 

"Shit," she winces, and rubs her back.

 

"What is it?" Sherlock grunts from his pillow.

 

"Oh, I thought you were still sleeping," she murmurs.

 

"I need water," he croaks. "Now."

 

"Okay, I'll get you a glass."

 

She gets up, wanders around unsuccessfully for a shirt she could wear and finally slips on Sherlock's robe.

 

"You didn't tell me what it was," he says. "The pain."

 

"Oh. It's a... it's a carpet burn," she replies, blushing.

 

Molly isn't sure how much Sherlock remembers from the previous evening, especially what happened after they arrived at Baker Street. The images are more than clear in her mind, although she certainly had her fair share of drinks. In fact, there's nothing she wants more now than taking a hot shower and curling up on the couch with some tea for the rest of the day.

 

Unfortunately, this proves more difficult than she planned. There’s nothing for her to wear and she can’t find her underwear, giving her no choice but to dash down to 221C and borrow some clothes off Mary. When she comes back, Sherlock immediately assaults her with demands. She wonders if it's the first time he's had to cope with a hangover, because he treats it with the same gravity as if he'd contracted the bubonic plague. After asking for Molly to run him a bath and lay out fresh clothes, he lies on the couch, his arm over his eyes, and whines for hot soup.

 

"My brain feels like it's in a vice," he moans. “I can’t think properly.”

 

“What do you need to think about? Just rest.”

 

“I know that it’s difficult for most people to grasp, Molly, but I can’t simply _stop thinking_.”

 

“Nor talking, apparently,” she mutters, going to the bathroom to search through the medicine cabinet.

 

Molly doesn’t dare give him anything stronger than aspirin and a menthol stick, but when John comes up to check how Sherlock is doing, her patience is wearing so thin that she almost caves in to the temptation to ask him to come take care of Sherlock himself. Surely he’s got more experience in this area than she does.

 

“That bad, huh?” John says as soon as Molly opens the door and he sees the expression on her face.

 

Molly gives him a weak smile. “He’s been better.”

 

“Do you need a hand?”

 

“No, no, don’t worry about it. It’s the day after your bachelor party, you should get some rest and relax.”

 

John nods. “All right, but don’t hesitate to call if you feel like killing him at any point.”

 

Molly hopes it won’t come to that, yet as the day progresses, Sherlock does seem to be getting better and finally moves to an upright position on the couch.

 

“These aren’t your clothes,” he remarks as she sets two mugs of tea on the coffee table.

 

“I had to borrow some from Mary,” she says. “I couldn’t very well go around in your robe all day.”  

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Is this what John refers to as _asking for a drawer_?”

 

She sighs. “No, Sherlock, it’s not anything, but… while we’re on the subject…”

 

He freezes in his seat and waits, his pale gaze unflinching. Molly bites her lip and surrounds her warm mug with her hands.

 

“Listen, Greg called me this afternoon to see how you were doing…”

 

Sherlock gives a little snort. “How generous of him.”

 

“He genuinely cares about you, Sherlock. It’s not because he was a bit flirty last night that -”

 

“Ah, so you admit he was flirting.”

 

“Greg is like that with _everyone_ , but that’s not what I wanted to talk about.” She takes a deep breath. “He invited us to a Christmas party at NSY, and I… I think we should go together. You know. As a couple.”

 

Sherlock joins his hands as if in prayer and rests his chin on the tip of his fingers.

 

“And why do you think that?” he asks.

 

“Well, it would be good for us to do something different for a change, something that doesn’t involve murder or body parts or… sex in public places. And after last night, I’m pretty sure rumours will start going around, so we might as well come out with it.”

 

He stays silent. Molly’s heart is beating painfully fast but something is pushing her not to back down. She doesn’t know if it’s hearing Mary’s friends go on about their relationships, or seeing Fiona hit on him, or the scene he made in the bar, but she knows that if they persist in keeping it a secret, the situation is bound to come to a head soon.

 

“All right,” he finally says. “I’ll go with you to the Christmas party.”

 

She’s almost startled with his reply. “Really?” she asks cautiously. “You will?”

 

“That’s what I said. No doubt John and Mary will be delighted with this turn of event.”

 

For a moment she wishes that he showed a bit more delight himself at the prospect of accompanying her – it’s always so hard to tell what he’s thinking under that impassive expression of his. Still, this is a victory.

 

Sherlock’s cell phone chimes and he takes it out of his pocket. “Oh. Right. I had forgotten about that.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Message from Mycroft. Your underwear has been retrieved from the car, in case you were wondering where it was.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I didn't update sooner. I recently finished an important writing project that sucked up a great deal of my creative energy and I needed a little break from writing (which also explains why this chapter is short and sort of "transitional", as I had to ease back into it and it was a bit difficult since the story is completely A/U now). But I've already started on the next chapter so you won't have to wait long for more Sherlock/Molly interaction :)

Molly fiddles with the strap of her bag, a half-eaten square of white chocolate fondant on the table on front of her.

 

"You didn't like it?" Mary asks, her mouth still half-full of cake.

 

"Oh no, it was fine, just fine," she replies distractedly, and takes another small square from the silver platter for good measure.

 

Mary swallows and sits down next to her. All around them are ribbons and doves and multiple-tiered confections large enough to feed an army, but Molly looks like she's waiting for test results at the hospital rather than tasting dessert samples in a luxurious bakery.

 

"I'm thinking the rose-watered _dacquoise_ ," Mary says, leaning back on her chair.

 

"Yes, that one's delicious."

 

"And you're thinking entirely of something else."

 

Molly startles. "What? No!"

 

"That's okay," Mary replies with a smile. "In the end, it's only cake, right?"

 

"It's not. It's important to you and John and I want to help."

 

"You're already helping by being here with me while my fiancé is off dismantling crime rings with his best friend."

 

Molly props her chin up on her palm. "Do you get scared for him?"

 

Mary thinks for a moment. Scared? Yes, she knows all too well these hollow hours of the night when she wakes up and John still hasn't returned, and she stares wide-eyed at the wall, telling herself it'll be all right until her pulse slows and she can go back to sleep. But under the ball of anxiety, there is a blunt, deep-rooted confidence that everything will be all right and John will return, and so far he always has.

 

"Of course I get scared," she finally says. "But I trust John. He may not always act like it, but he's old enough to know what he's doing."

 

"I wish I could feel the same about Sherlock," Molly says. "Sometimes I'm afraid he's going to get so caught up in what he's doing that he'll forget... I mean, what if his work takes him too far away? What if he disappears again?"

 

"Don't worry about that. That man is a creature of habit if I ever saw one. He might enjoy going off and looking for danger, but there's nothing he loves more than getting home to a nice cuppa when he's done."

 

Molly bites her lip. "I guess so, but see... He's fine with having you and John around, but I don't know if he'd be comfortable coming home to _me_."

 

"Are you thinking of moving in with him?" Mary asks, raising a quizzical brow.

 

"No, no, not right away," she says hastily, "but perhaps in a couple of months... Well, it's something I have to ask myself, right?"

 

"Absolutely. You two aren't teenagers. It's perfectly reasonable to consider paying one outrageous London rent instead of two."

 

"Please, don't mention it to Sherlock, though. He's been acting a bit... edgy these part few days."

 

"You can count on me."

 

They have a few more samples, then Mary changes her mind and finally decides on a simple chocolate opera cake. She and John just aren’t the fancy type, and it won’t look good if the groom can’t even pronounce the name of the wedding cake correctly.

 

"Do you want to come back to Baker Street for tea?" she asks Molly once she’s worked out the order with the store clerk and they’ve stepped out into the crisp, blue winter day.

 

"I'd love to, but I have to get back to Barts. There's some paperwork that needs finishing and I don't want to have any left over for this weekend with the Christmas party and all."

 

"Come on, then, I'll walk you. The weather is so beautiful."

 

They stroll arm in arm along the busy streets, wrapped up to their noses in their scarves. Molly doesn’t volunteer any more information on the Sherlock issue, and Mary lets it alone for a moment. As a matter of fact, she’s been noticing something odd – well, odder than what is considered usual at Baker Street – about Sherlock’s behaviour since the bachelor party.

 

She didn’t take much notice at first, caught up in the wedding preparations and swinging from stress to bursts of puppy love that make her want to snog John silly. But when Sherlock started demanding more of John’s time, acting as if entertaining and feeding a hundred and fifty people was a trivial matter that could wait until later, she started to get suspicious.

 

It’s not as if she minds John working with Sherlock (in fact, it’s far more efficient when she takes decisions alone) but something in Sherlock’s attitude doesn’t seem right. In recent months, when he wasn’t on a case, he took a mild interest in the wedding, even offered to help on occasion, and seemed content in enjoying her and John’s company even when they were busy. He was softer, somehow – more human. Now it looks like he’s retracting, hardening again, pretending he doesn’t care. Because Mary knows he’s pretending and all this snapping about cynically is just an act. But who is he putting it on for?

 

“Maybe it’s the holidays,” John told her when she voiced her concern. “He always gets weird around that time of year.”

 

“Why? Because everyone’s cheerful and giving each other gifts and expressing love out in the open?”

 

“I suppose, yeah. That or all the Christmas decorations Mrs Hudson puts up.”

 

But Mary wasn’t convinced. It was too sudden a change to have to do only with the holidays. The answer came the following day, when Molly called her to ask her what she was wearing to the NSY Christmas party.

 

That damned party. John mentioned it in passing and she forgot all about it, even though she wrote in red on her calendar, and she didn’t even know Sherlock and Molly were attending. But that certainly explains why Sherlock’s been acting like a hermit crab: the man is terrified. He’s been shagging Molly with the enthusiasm of a love-struck teenager, but they’ve never officially come out together as a couple.

 

Mary wants to reassure him and tell him that whatever happens, it can’t be as bad as what happened during the bachelor party (and afterwards, apparently – she _still_ can’t get Molly to tell her exactly why she had to lend her underwear the next morning). But Mary feels it’s not her place. Perhaps she should send John to talk to him? No, that would probably end up with him beating awkwardly around the bush while Sherlock dissolves brain slices in acid or something of the sort. The only thing she can do for now is support Molly as best she can.

 

“Are you coming to pick us up for the party on Friday?” she asks her as they turn into Giltspur Street.

 

“I’m not sure. I haven’t worked things out with Sherlock yet.”

 

“Why don’t you come around seven? It’ll save us cab fare if we all go together.”

 

“All right. Do you mind if I call you tomorrow? I still haven’t decided on…”

 

Molly trails off and stops walking. Mary follows her gaze. Right next to the entrance of Barts, a young man in a dark coat is typing away on his Blackberry. Next to him is another man with a camera. When they spot Mary and Molly, the man with the Blackberry advances towards them with an impossibly cheerful expression.

 

"Are you Doctor Molly Hooper?" he asks, extending his hand to grab Molly's in a vigorous handshake. "I was wondering if we could have a word, take a picture of you..."

 

"What? What's this about?"

 

"We're from the _Daily Express_ and we've heard from a reliable source that you and Sherlock Holmes - "

 

Molly grips Mary's arm a little tighter and hurries towards the entrance. The man with the camera starts clicking away. "I'm sorry, I don't have anything to tell you."

 

"Please, just a few questions, Miss Hooper," the man insists, blocking their way. "You've had a part in helping Sherlock Holmes fake his death two years ago. Were you already involved with him back then?"

 

Molly tries to wave him off. "Let us through, I need to go to work."

 

"Take my card, then. If you were willing to give the _Express_ an exclusive interview on the subject of your relationship -"

 

"Go away, I'm not interested!"

 

"Listen, you heard her, mate, so why don't you leave her alone?" Mary snaps, her cheeks flushing in anger. "We're done asking politely."

 

"It's all right, Mary," Molly tells her, pulling her towards the sliding doors.

 

"Mary? Mary Morstan? Are you John Watson's fiancé? Do you have any comment about the rumours that circulated regarding his and Sherlock Holmes' sexual orientation?"

 

Mary feels, at that moment, that an unequivocal hand gesture will be more efficient than any words in telling them exactly what she thinks of these rumours. The camera continues to click as Molly rushes her into the building. It's only when they've had time to catch their breath and regain their calm that Mary realises that there may be a good reason for Sherlock to be anxious after all.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock stands in the middle of the living room, arms crossed, meticulously going through the possible solutions to the problem at hand.

 

"Disguise," he mutters. "Most logical solution, but impracticable to wear over formal apparel."

 

"Sherlock, don't - "

 

He tilts his head to the side. "I wonder how many of the twenty-three secret entrances to NSY Lestrade managed to locate after I told him about them. Surely some are still functional."

 

Mary gives an exasperated sigh and turned around in her chair, the beads from her dress chinking softly. "John, darling, could you try talking to him?"

 

"I don't understand why you're upset," Sherlock tells her. "I'm just trying to find a way to attend the Christmas party without running into those tabloid vultures and spare myself the trouble of forcibly disposing of their cameras."

 

"But you've had your face in the newspapers before. You faked your own death, for goodness sake, and if that isn't tabloid fodder, I don’t know what is!"

 

"She's got a point," John says, handing Mary a glass of red wine to match his own. "Why are you so hell-bent on avoiding the press now?"

 

Sherlock stiffens, the collar of his shirt explicably tight. "Well, there's no reason why they should know... I don't want them to..."

 

"To see you with Molly?" Mary finishes. "To know you're together?"

 

"Yes. That's my private life, and it's not the public's concern."

 

"I agree, but people already know, Sherlock. It was bound to happen sooner or later. If Molly goes in alone without you, they’ll start asking even more questions. Just come out with it and they’ll lose interest. I mean, you can't just pretend you're single and hope it'll all go away."

 

"And why not?"

 

John and Mary share a glance that is both appalled and full of pity. They think they know better than he does, Sherlock realises. Rare as it is, it’s a deeply unpleasant occurrence, and this time it simply isn't true. How can they understand what he feels for Molly? He’s perfectly happy when he’s in her company. She’s intelligent and he loves to hear about her latest autopsies. She gives him a deep sense of security and at the same time, it’s immensely pleasurable to hold her small frame in his arms and feel like he can protect her from anything.

 

But that’s just it: he needs to keep her safe from this mess, out of the papers and out of the news, because it might make her a target for his more unscrupulous enemies and he doesn’t want her involved any more than she is. Molly has always been fully aware of the danger, of course, but he’s a selfish man in many ways, and he wants her for himself – in his arms, in his bed, lovely, warm and hidden away from the ugliness of the world.

 

However, John and Mary won’t hear that, the happy fiancés with their fancy wedding coming up. They’ll think that he’s somehow ashamed of Molly, that he’d rather live a lie than admit to what they have. And what’s worse, Molly might think the same as well. Oh, how very tiresome it is to deal with those whose worldview has been moulded beyond repair by social conventions.

 

“Fine,” he relents. “I’ll come in with you. But you can’t hold me responsible for whatever tragic accident may befall those idiots.”

 

“Deal,” John says. “Do you want a glass of wine before we go?”

 

“What, to calm my nerves? Don’t be ridiculous, John.”

 

“No, I just think you might enjoy this more than the piss they’ll have at NSY. They’ve had terrible budget cuts, you know.”

 

Just then, the doorbell rings and Molly enters, her hair done in a lose braid, wearing a glimmering dark blue dress under her winter coat. Strapless if he’s not mistaken, though it’s hard to tell from this angle. In spite of himself, he imagines sliding the coat off to reveal her bare shoulder, letting it fall to the floor, not going to this daft party at all, convincing her without words that they’d be much better off staying in his room all evening. He could, of course: there’s that wavering gleam in her eye he recognises every time he wears his best semi-formal suit. But no. John and Mary, Lestrade, social conventions, going out in public. Molly asked for this. The least he can do is try.

 

“Hello everyone,” she chirps. “I hope I’m not late.”

 

“Oh no, not at all, darling,” Mary says. “Come on in. We were just having some wine.”

 

Sherlock kisses her cheek but Molly doesn’t relax against him like she usually does. Instead she pulls back slightly.

 

“I found something outside for you,” she says, her voice almost unnaturally cheerful. “An envelope, with no address and no stamp.”

 

“How do you know it’s for me?”

 

“It just says, _Merry Christmas, Mister Holmes_. And there’s, um… a red lipstick mark on it.”

 

John lifts an eyebrow at him. He knows as well as Sherlock does whom this is from, and by the way Molly is pursing her lips, she must know too, yet she hands him the envelope all the same. Sherlock’s first instinct is to sniff at it – you never know what kind of poison the Woman might think amusing to send him after he blocked her number – but all he can smell is an elegant, musky perfume. He holds it up against the light, feels what’s inside.

 

“Flash drive, apparently,” he says.

 

“Why would Irene Adler be sending you a flash drive?” John asks.

 

“She’s been involved in one of the crime rings we’re investigating,” he says. “It might be useful information.”

 

“Or a file full of naked boudoir shots of herself,” Mary interjects.

 

Mary may be right, but Sherlock can’t deny he’s itching to find out what’s in there, especially if it can help him with his work. John clears his throat, softly at first then a bit louder until Sherlock finally looks at him, then he gives a quick little headshake. _Don’t do it_ , his eyes are pleading. Sherlock tosses the envelope on the coffee table, feigning indifference.

 

“We should head out now,” he says. “If we wait too long, it’ll be harder to get a cab.”

 

“He actually studied the frequency of cabs in Baker Street depending on the hour, day of the week and month,” John quips. “There’s a chart in here somewhere.”

 

“Do you want me to take it out to prove my point?”

 

John rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “No, it’s fine, let’s go. Let me get your coat, Mary.”

 

True to his word, Sherlock gets a cab for them in less than five minutes, and they head out to NSY. Molly, John and Mary make conversation about their respective plans for the holidays, but Sherlock keeps silent, too concentrated on the many complications of the evening to be in any sort of mood to talk. Concentrated and annoyingly _jittery_. No doubt Mycroft would mock his inability to cope with a flash drive and a couple of journalists; then again, no one’s ever wanted to take _his_ picture, (or, heaven forbid, sent naked photos of themselves to him) so how would he know what it’s like?

 

When they finally pull up to the building, Sherlock immediately spots the throng of photographers on both sides of Victoria Street, barely held back by a couple of constables, and his heart solidifies with dread. They’re more numerous than he expected. He shouldn’t have let Mary talk him into this travesty, but what choice does he have now?

 

John straightens his tie and coughs nervously. “Right then, out we go.”

 

Sherlock feels Molly’s delicate hand slip into his and before he can fully realise what’s happening, his long legs propel him out of the cab. The camera flashes crackle all around them and he’s momentarily blinded as he makes his way to the door in haste.

 

“Mister Holmes, just one moment -”

 

“If you could turn around for us -”

 

“Miss Hooper, over here -”

 

They’ve never been so noisy, close, even if they’re a safe distance from him, and Sherlock sees a flare of red before his eyes. His heartbeat pounds in his ears. He tries to focus only on the door, on John’s back trudging forward ahead of him, and accelerates his pace. But Molly can’t keep up, and she’s holding him back.

 

“Sherlock, wait…”

 

She squeezes his hand, and the idea of this gentle touch, this loving trust she so inexplicably puts in him being captured by on film, gobbled up by the tabloids, plastered on the front page with a garish title is too much for him to bear. He drops Molly’s hand and races inside.

 

The din dies down but a very angry pair of hands grab the lapels of his coat.

 

“What the bloody hell, Sherlock?” John growls. “Molly’s still out there!”

 

Mary turns around and rushes to help her through the door. Molly has covered one side of her face with her clutch, and her eyes are dark and frightened.

 

“There she is,” Sherlock tells John, the panic slowly descending from his throat back to his stomach. “No harm done.”

 

“No thanks to you, you dolt! Why didn’t you wait for her?”

 

“I may point out that this was all your fiancée’s brilliant idea, but that would ruin the mood for the evening,” Sherlock sneers. “Now that we’ve all made it in one piece, we should go grace Lestrade and his merry band of bobbies with our presence.”

 

John shakes his head, muttering something between his teeth that sounds like crude variations on the word “git” while Mary carts him away. Sherlock offers his arm to Molly, but notices that she hesitates for an instant before taking it.

 

 

#

 

 

“You’ve done a decent job of turning this conference rooms into a simulacrum of a bar, although I would’ve foregone the chintzy holiday decorations.”

 

Lestrade takes a gulp of mulled wine and looks at Sherlock wide-eyed. “Thanks, but it is Christmas, after all.”

 

“Details. You haven’t gone with Christmas carols for musical entertainment, so there’s no true logic in that.”

 

“Have you… been to a party before?” Lestrade replies, frowning.

 

“That’s an unnecessary question. You saw me at one not too long ago, if you can recall.”

 

“Yeah, about that…”

 

“Don’t bother, Geoffrey. Molly was quite clear in telling me that my behaviour was inappropriate. I apologise. No more needs to be said.”

 

Lestrade nods slowly and looks out to the dance floor, where several of his employees have started to let loose and are proceeding to take pictures and videos with their phones they’ll no doubt bitterly regret tomorrow.

 

“So, you and Molly… Is it serious?”

 

Sherlock turns to him sharply. “Define _serious_ , Detective Inspector.”

 

“I mean, it’s not just a… a kind of casual thing?”

 

He thinks for a moment. _A casual thing_. He heard John refer to some of his girlfriends that way in the past, usually the ones who would leave before morning coffee. “You mean, are we or are we not having sex without engaging in other romantic activities?”

 

“I guess you could put it that way.”

 

“We go to the restaurant sometimes.”

 

Lestrade waits for a follow-up and gives him an uncertain smile when none comes. “Okay. Serious then.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Right. I’m just going to get more of this.”

 

He points to his glass and dashes off. The music turns to a slow song and the spotlights shift to a gaudy blue. Sherlock can spot John and Mary swaying together to the music, locked in a tight embrace. Molly appears at his side, a half-empty glass in hand.

 

“Enjoying yourself?” Sherlock asks.

 

“Oh yes, it’s a wonderful party.” She sighs a bit wistfully. “Look at John and Mary. They’re such a handsome couple...”

 

“You’re trying to get me to ask you to dance, aren’t you?” he says after a quick analysis of her tone and demeanour.

 

“Sherlock, I’m not trying anything,” she retorts. “I know you’re not… that type. The dancing type, I mean.”

 

“I can be if you want me to.”

 

“No, I don’t want you to force yourself. If you ask me to dance, I want you to really want it.”

 

Sherlock is getting more confused by the second. What difference does it make if he really wants it or not? He decides to drop the subject and head to safer territories.

 

“You look lovely tonight,” he says.

 

“Thank you. You do too. You always look lovely.”

 

She smiles but it’s almost sad somehow, and she keeps fidgeting with her glass like she’s waiting for him to say something. Apparently, complimenting her on her appearance didn’t hit the mark.

 

“Is there a problem, Molly?” he asks. “You don’t look pleased.”

 

“It’s nothing. Forget it.”

 

The alarms inside his brain immediately go off. He’s heard that before as well, coming from Mary, and in ninety-nine per cent of cases, it preceded a monumental row with John. He knows what he’s _not_ supposed to say: _Oh well, if it’s nothing, you should cheer up_. Experience tells him that this inevitably leads to accusations of heartlessness and insensitivity. He has to find something else, think back on the last time Molly was angry and what he did to change the tide. The bachelor party, the row with Lestrade, the car…

 

Right. Words are of no use here. Molly just needs to release tension, and although the location isn’t ideal, he knows exactly how to proceed.

 

He leans down to whisper in her ear. “Let’s break into Lestrade’s office.”

 

“What?” she exclaims. “Are you crazy?”

 

“Don’t worry, I’ve done it dozens of times. He really should give me the key, it would save us both a load of trouble.”

 

“But why do you want to do that _now_?”

 

“Well, I can’t very well perform oral sex on you right here in front of everyone.”

 

Molly gapes at him. “Oral sex?”

 

“If you’d prefer something else, we -”

 

“You won’t hold my hand in public, but you have no problem going down on me in the office of Scotland Yard’s detective inspector?”

 

The corners of his mouth twitch. “It sounds even more fun when you put it that way.”

 

“No, Sherlock, it sounds _insane_. Good grief, is it too much to ask for you to get me drinks and dance with me and kiss my cheek like a bloody normal boyfriend?”

 

“I don’t -”

 

“When I asked you to come to this party, I just wanted to spend a nice evening with you, but you’ve been standing here all night, as stiff as a lamppost, looking like you wish you were somewhere else.”

 

A surge of annoyance rises in him. “Yes, Molly, I do wish I were somewhere else, where there aren’t tabloid photographers waiting outside or drunken members of the task force dancing to bad disco music, and I don’t think anyone can blame me.”

 

“So you’d rather be at home, then, looking through that flash drive?”

 

Ah. There’s the real reason why Molly is so upset. He only made things worse when he dropped her hand in front of the photographers, or failed to ask her to dance, but he could’ve made up for it if it hadn’t been for Irene Adler’s little Christmas grenade. He’ll never know if she timed it on purpose, but if she did, she couldn’t have picked a better moment – or rather a worse one. Even in his dejection, he can’t help but admire her wits and wonder if they’ll ever leave him alone.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Molly,” he says. “How can you be jealous of a flash drive when I just offered to whisk you away into an office for sex?”

 

Molly looks down into her glass and presses her lips together. “You think I’m ridiculous, then.”

 

“That’s not what I meant to say, I - ” He looks at her, desperate to meet her gaze to try and make her understand what he feels. Everything that comes out of his mouth is too blunt. If only he could show her instead... “Let’s just go home, the two of us. Please.”

 

She doesn’t lift her eyes. A moment passes before she gives a tight nod and stalks away to put her glass on the counter and warn John and Mary of their departure.

 

Sherlock watches her, a strange, unpleasant tinge dulling his satisfaction. He’s done it again. He got what he wanted and came out victorious. So why does it feel so much like defeat?


	7. Chapter 7

When Molly wakes the next morning, there is a bundle of apprehension lodged deep in her stomach. She feels it when she sits up in the empty bed, when she brings the sheets up over her nakedness – an unnecessary gesture, as she is alone in Sherlock’s room - and finally, when her eyes pierce through the semi-darkness and spot the desk. The laptop that was there the night before is now gone. Molly sighs and buries her face in her hands.

 

She could push it down again, this heavy, disquieting feeling that’s been swelling inside of her for the last couple of days. She managed to ignore it until now, even to forget about it when Sherlock took her to bed last night.

 

He was more ardent than usual, harsher somehow, pinning her wrists over her head with his hand, locking them in a grip so tight she’s sure it must’ve left traces, as if he was trying to prevent her from escaping even as he careened into her. A dull flush of shame spreads over her when she remembers how she relished the pain, how she asked him for more, how she begged for release, and the smile that twisted his mouth when she did.

 

She doesn’t know why she lets him do this to her. No, in fact she knows, and that makes it even worse. Because after they have sex, when she’s content and asleep, he gets up in the early hours of the morning to browse through that damned flash drive full of terribly important information or erotic pictures or God knows what else that awful woman put in there.

 

Molly gets up and pads across the wooden floor, shivering. She needs tea, she needs to sit down, get her head straight, she needs to talk to Sherlock and… And what? She knows exactly what he’s going to say.

 

_“This is work, Molly. It has nothing to do with you. Why are you mad?”_

 

Then he’ll look at her with an air of pure bewilderment in those luminous eyes of his, sincere in his complete incapacity to understand why she’s upset. Trying to explain feelings to Sherlock Holmes is like trying to explain calculus to a newborn.

 

She finds her underwear on the floor and slips it on, then opens Sherlock’s closet, looking for a shirt to cover herself – he’ll have a fit, but she can’t very well walk around naked if Mrs Hudson decides to pop in with biscuits before she can have her shower. Why didn’t she insist on having a drawer? She should’ve asked when he mentioned it, if she hadn’t been so bloody worried of being overbearing…

 

Asides from the few crisp shirts and pants hanging from their hangers, Sherlock’s closet is surprisingly messy, filled with odd bits of costumes, wigs and even what looks like a bloodstained rag. Molly rummages at the bottom for a minute, finally finds an old vest and puts it on.

 

At that moment, a glimmer catches her eye.

 

Molly frowns and sinks to her knees. There, at the very bottom of the closet, amongst a heap of clothes, something is glinting in the dim light. She instantly senses that she shouldn’t have seen this, that this wasn’t meant for her eyes or anyone else’s. But it strikes a memory within her for some reason, and looks almost familiar. Before she can stop herself, she reaches out and her fingers grasp the small box, painstakingly wrapped in bright paper like tinsel…

 

She swears she can feel the floor opening under her and swallowing her up. She stands and stares at the box in her hand, but there’s no doubt possible. It’s the Christmas present she gave Sherlock three years before, the one he’d surmised was for her boyfriend. Intact. Unopened. Discarded at the bottom of a messy closet.

 

Molly expects anger, waits revolt and disgust to rise within her, or even jealousy over the fact that he was so eager to open Irene Adler’s present when he didn’t even touch hers, but nothing comes asides from a heavy, biting sadness. She sets the present down on his desk.

 

“Oh Sherlock…” she murmurs.

 

At that moment, she realises that if she doesn’t do something drastic, she’ll end up the same way as that pitiful little box: pretty and adorned, perhaps even an object of brief desire or curiosity, then stuffed somewhere no one will find her. He’ll never let her be part of his world, not really, and he won’t want to be part of hers. And after awhile, when the novelty of their relationship inevitably wears off, he’ll lose interest. Oh, he won’t leave her, no more than he threw her present in the rubbish bin. He’ll simply forsake her in favour of more exciting things, because that’s the way he is, and how he'll remain unless she jolts him awake.

 

Molly takes the vest off, puts it back in the closet and dresses quickly. She opens the door of the room just a crack and hears the shower running in the bathroom. She is filled with sudden guilt at the thought that she’s about to leave on the sly, that he’ll come out of the shower and find the flat empty, but if she waits, if she stands in front of him and tries to tell him why she needs to do this, if he pleads with her and pulls her against him, she’ll surrender to the voice telling her that it can wait until later, and it can’t. Not this time.

 

She silently crosses the corridor and takes her coat on the rack. _This isn’t the end_ , she tells herself stubbornly. _This will open his eyes._ But not for the first time, she wonders if there’s anything or anyone that can make Sherlock take off the blindfold he so willingly kept on for years.

 

 

#

 

 

The first thing John likes to do in the morning is reach out across the mattress and touch the fine blond hair on the nape of Mary’s neck. She always sleeps on her left side with her back to him. She tells him that it’s more convenient for him to snuggle up against her that way.

 

Although she keeps it short, Mary’s hair has always been one of her attributes that John likes most. It’s so fine and soft, like a baby’s. He threads his fingers through it and she stirs.

 

“Morning, you,” he murmurs.

 

She turns towards him and smiles sleepily. “Morning.”

 

“Sleep well?”

 

She nods and opens her eyes a little wider. “How about you? You look tired. Did you stay up late?”

 

“Oh, I couldn’t sleep, so I finished off a little bit of work…”

 

“Darling, are you still worried about Sherlock? Is that why you couldn’t sleep?”

 

John gives a little laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I be worried?”

 

Mary bends her arm and props her head on her hand. “Because he’s been holed up in his flat for over a week with his nose in his chemistry set and won’t take any cases?”

 

“It wouldn’t be the first time he -”

 

“Go talk to him, John. He’s depressed because of Molly.”

 

“He told me they only had a small misunderstanding, nothing important.”

 

Mary raises an eyebrow. “And you believe him?”

 

John gets up with a sigh. “All right, fine, I’ll go see him. But Sherlock doesn’t like to talk about that sort of thing, you know that.”

 

“It’s not a question of _want_ , John. Your friend needs you.”

 

“He’s lucky you’re here to look after him,” he replies, and kisses the top of her head. “In fact, we both are.”

 

“Don’t you ever forget it, Doctor Watson.”

 

After breakfast and a lengthy discussion about the music they should play at the reception, John heads up the stairs and knocks on the door for good form before letting himself in as he usually does.

 

“Sherlock?” he calls out. “Are you there?”

 

He heads directly towards the kitchen, expecting to find his partner observing the disgusting green mould he managed to cultivate on a wet blanket, but the table has been wiped clean.

 

“I’m here, John.”

 

He whips around and sees Sherlock in his dressing gown, sitting in his chair and looking at a small item on the table in front of him as if it were an unsolvable mystery.

 

“Hey mate,” John says. “What’ve you got there?”

 

Sherlock doesn’t reply and keeps staring at it. Upon closer inspection, John realises it’s a Christmas present. Funny, since the holidays came and went and Sherlock bluntly refused to take any part in them. John sits in his own chair and gives him a little smile.

 

“Someone send you a gift?”

 

“No.”

 

“So that’s… not a Christmas present.”

 

“It is. But it wasn’t sent. Molly gave it to me three years ago.”

 

“Oh.” John concentrates and conjures images of that Christmas – the one with Jeannette and the Woman, when the blog started to pick up and the party… “ _Oh_.”

 

Sherlock nods and continues his observation.

 

“If you really want to know what’s inside, it would be easier to open it instead of trying to guess,” John remarks.

 

“I can’t open it _now_ ,” Sherlock replies curtly. “It would be entirely pointless.”

 

“Well, why didn’t you open it back then?”

 

Sherlock slumps back in his chair and looks away. “I… forgot about it, until after the whole mess with the Woman was over. It seemed stupid to unwrap it after all that time without Molly being there, but…”

 

“But you didn’t throw it out. Why?”

 

“I couldn’t. It reminded me of how ashamed I was, and it felt like a coward’s move to simply get rid of it.” He pauses for a moment. “On reflection it would’ve been smarter. Molly found it in my closet last time she was here.”

 

“So that’s what caused your _small misunderstanding_. Why didn’t you tell her what you’re telling me?”

 

“She left before I could do so.”

 

“Ever heard of the phone?”

 

“It would be more logical for _her_ to call me first.”

 

“Oh, stuff your logic and your pride, let Molly know you care!”

 

“Believe me, John, it’s for the best,” Sherlock intones. “We’ll both be better off in the long run.”

 

“Bollocks. There’s not another woman in the world who would understand you as well as Molly does – or stand you, for that matter.”

 

“Maybe so. But it was simply too… _intense_.”

 

To John’s amazement, two patches of red appear on Sherlock’s cheeks. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

 

“Don’t take it personally, but I’d rather not discuss this matter with you.”

 

“Sorry, that’s what friends do. Do you want to go down to the pub and have a few pints so it feels more authentic?”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Fine. It was getting more and more difficult to adhere to the rules I had established on the frequency of our sexual intercourse and the preservation of our boundaries.”

 

John leans forward and narrows his gaze. “Are you telling me you wrote Molly off because you were having too much sex?”

 

“It was a problem. The need was getting constant. I’m an addict, I don’t deal well with self-control.”

 

“Sherlock, this has nothing to do with addiction. It’s always like that when you first start seeing someone you’re really keen on. Besides, you’ve had thirty-six’s years worth of abstinence to make up for, I’d say a bit of excess is understandable. If you two start living together, it’ll calm down.”

 

“Living together?” Sherlock repeats incredulously.

 

“Why not? Molly wouldn’t mind your crazy experiments any more than I did.”

 

“I suppose, but…” He hesitates. “You know better than anyone how dangerous it can get. She’d be taking too much of a risk.”

 

“That’s not for you to decide, mate. Mary never asked _me_ for my opinion.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth curls into a smirk then they both start laughing.

 

“Go on, open it,” John says, taking the present from the table and handing it to him. “Better late than never.”

 

“As you wish.” Sherlock carefully lifts the flap of the wrapping paper and slides his finger down the middle to reveal a grey box. He lifts the lid; a pair of oval cufflinks are nestled inside.

 

“Those are nice,” John says.

 

“Vintage. 1920s. Monogrammed – _SH_.”

 

“Your initials?”

 

“Remarkable. I’d have to calculate what the odds are of finding these in a random antique store, but they must be extremely scarce.”

 

“That tells you everything you need to know, then, doesn’t it?”

 

But Sherlock doesn’t reply. He’s engrossed in the study of his cufflinks. John stands up and pats his shoulder. There’s nothing more he can do for now, but he and Mary might not have to revise the seating arrangement just yet.


	8. Chapter 8

Molly stands in front of the mirror and breathes in sharply as she inspects her appearance. Her dress is burnt red taffeta with elbow-length sleeves and a pinched waist, a perfect choice for a winter wedding. Now if only she could calm down the steel butterflies crashing around in her stomach.

 

It’s normal for the maid of honour to be nervous, true, but what’s really got her nerves on edge is facing Sherlock for the first time since she left Baker Street that morning. She doesn’t want to think about it as a break-up or anything definite, yet the fact remains that Sherlock hasn’t called or tried contact her at all.

 

She can’t count the number of times she stared at her mobile, willing it to ring, nor the number of times she almost gave in and sent him a text. The memories of what they shared, the kisses and the looks shared over a body at Barts and the passionate nights where sleep slipped away from one hour to next, was just about enough to drive her mad, but she willed herself to be strong – not for herself, but for him. If she yielded, he would never learn how to change.

 

Molly bites her lip. What if he simply resented her for leaving him and resigned himself to being alone? There’s so little room for _maybe_ in that man’s mind; today she’s going to find out just how little that is.

 

“Come on, Molly,” she murmurs to herself. “You can do this.”

 

At the very least, she owes it to Mary to support her throughout the day, even if Sherlock ignores her during the reception and dances with someone else at the party and she feels like a stake is being rammed through her heart. Whatever happens, she’ll wait until she’s home to completely fall apart.

 

Toby rubs against her legs and Molly bends over to gently push him asides. “Careful there, mustn’t put a run in my tights.”

 

She checks her watch and realises she should leave now if she wants to arrive early at the church where the ceremony is taking place. A few minutes later, wrapped in her warmest winter coat, she’s down on the sidewalk in the biting cold. Luckily, it’s less than a minute before she spots a free cab and hails it over.

 

When she opens the door, Sherlock is sitting in the backseat.

 

“Wha – how…?” She’s so stunned she can barely articulate.

 

“Well, get in,” he says. “The meter’s running and it’s quite a drive to Highbury.”

 

So much for preparing herself to seeing him again. She sits next to him, not knowing what to say, nor how to react, and they stay in silence for a while. After the initial shock wears off, she can’t help but notice how exceedingly handsome he looks in his morning coat and her eyes keep sliding back to drink in the sight of him.

 

A tremor passes through her when her gaze lands on his cufflinks.

 

“They work quite well with the suit, don’t you think?” he says casually.

 

“Sherlock…”

 

“I’m not sure anyone will notice the genuine art deco design, but the trick is in the details.”

 

Molly shakes her head. “I don’t understand.”

 

“That’s what the cab ride is for. I thought it might be better for us to sort things out before the ceremony so as not to add any further pressure to our duties towards John and Mary.” He taps his fingers nervously on his thigh. “So.”

 

“So… you opened my present.”

 

“I did. I’m sorry it took so long.” He clears his throat and continues. “I’m sorry I acted like an idiot at the Christmas party – both Christmas parties for that matter. I’m sorry about the flash drive. I’m sorry about… all that mess. This is more of an explanation than an excuse, but I don’t know how to react when… someone is kind to me, or cares for me when they shouldn’t. I mean, you can ask John, I used to be the same with him.”

 

Her heart wrenches with sadness at his words. “Why do you think people shouldn’t care for you?” she asks.

 

“I can barely manage myself from day to day. What good could I be in a relationship?”

 

“You said it yourself – you’ve already learned a lot from John.”

 

“It’s been difficult for him, being my best friend. It still is much of the time. Would you be willing to do the same?”

 

She looks into his eyes, those clear, crystalline eyes that perceive so much but reveal so little. But she can see it now, hope and fear blended together, and she knows this is one of those rare moments where he is entirely vulnerable. She takes his hand in hers.

 

“Of course I would, Sherlock. But… are you sure this is what you want? I mean, moving in together, dinner parties, holidays, perhaps one day having children… I don’t need much more in life, but maybe you do.”

 

Before he can answer, the cab pulls up in front of the church. Sherlock pays the driver and exits, swiftly making his way around to help Molly out. His natural composure has returned, and he looks every bit the best man as he accompanies her towards the entrance.

 

“You moving in to 221B seems like a logical choice in economic terms,” he says thoughtfully. “Not to mention the fact that your work would benefit from the presence of scientific equipment at home. As for the rest, I’m not certain if I’d be up to the task, but I am certain that if I were to try, doing it with you would be my best chance of success.”

 

Molly looks up at him. Her heart is brimming, pleading with her not to hold back the love she feels for this man any longer. He’s always had it, but now maybe he’s grown enough to deserve it.

 

“Smile for the camera, please!”

 

A photographer clicks away at them and Molly quickly turns to pose next to Sherlock, who is standing as straight and solemn as a royal guard.

 

“He’s the only one allowed on the premises today,” he tells her after the photographer’s done. “I made sure of it.”

 

“How?”

 

“I negotiated a few exclusive pictures with one of those newspapers, the less trashy of the bunch.”

 

“And Molly and John agreed?”

 

“They don’t know about it yet, but I’ll manage to convince them after the stress from the wedding has passed. That alone should pay for their honeymoon.”

 

 

#

 

 

A huge grin is fixed on John’s face as he shakes hands and receives congratulations with his beautiful bride besides him – a married man now. It’s just a legal recognition of a union that already existed, really, but Sherlock senses that this is the beginning of a new era. No more pretending that they’re still two hardened bachelors when they’re on a case; companionship has definitely worked its way into their lives, and Sherlock is surprised to note that he doesn’t mind that much. In fact, he finds it quite elating.

 

Jon catches his eye and gives him a quick thumbs-up. Sherlock shrugs his shoulders, but the feeling of Molly at his side gives him such blissful relief than his head is spinning slightly.

 

“Do you want to go get a drink?” she asks.

 

“It’s five o’clock and the dinner’s not before seven. Seems reasonable.”

 

They navigate amongst the crowd, arm in arm, and Sherlock picks up bits and pieces of conversation here and there – _real estate, restaurants to try, babies –_ nothing but bland remarks and fake smiles. Is this really the world John and Mary want to belong to? Is this the world _he’ll_ belong to as one half of a couple? Ah well, he supposes he’ll have to partake once in awhile when the occasion calls for it like today. Besides, he wants to do right by Molly and it would be terrible form to point out how tedious this all is.

 

All of a sudden, they come face to face with a sandy-haired man Sherlock wishes he didn’t recognise – Simon, of course, how could he have forgotten his name was on the guest list? He’s with a woman in a tight black and white dress that whiffs of a last minute dash to the nearest retail outlet – last minute invitation, then, until recently her boyfriend wasn’t sure they were serious enough to attend a wedding together. Is it true feelings or social pressure that made him cave? Sherlock is guessing the former. He plasters on a smile.

 

“Oh hello, Simon,” Molly says, and they kiss cheeks awkwardly. “It’s lovely to see you.”

 

“Likewise. This is Jessica.”

 

“Hi, hello. And you know -“

 

“Sherlock Holmes, of course, how could we not?”

 

There are stiff laughs and the conversation patters on about the reception and the weather and jobs for a few minutes.

 

“We’ve started to look at rentals last week since Simon’s flat is too small for the both of us,” Jessica says with a distinctive flare of possessiveness, “but the prices are simply mad!”

 

“What about you, Molly?” Simon asks. “Still in the same flat?”

 

“Actually, Molly’s going to move in with me,” Sherlock says. “It’s a nice house, full of charm. The landlady has a bit of a shifty past as an exotic dancer and the walls have to be scanned regularly for bombs and wires and whatnot, but the rent is very low for the area.” He wraps his arm around Molly’s waist and pulls her closer, to show what a handsome and united couple they make. “I must say I’m looking forward to having someone to go do the grocery shopping. I’ve practically been on a steady diet of takeout since John moved out, can’t be bothered to throw out what’s rotting in the fridge – mould is always fascinating!”

 

“Right, okay,” Molly chirps. “It was so good to catch up with you. See you later, yeah?”

 

She manoeuvres Sherlock away. “Thank goodness we won’t be at their table,” she mutters.

 

“Why? I thought that went rather well.”

 

“Maybe next time, leave out the part about the bombs and the mould?”

 

“Well, you can’t say I didn’t try.”

 

Molly half-grins and they head towards the buffet. While Sherlock is asking the waiter for two champagnes flutes, he sees Mary’s friend Vivian incoming like a guided missile.

 

“Molly, dear, how are you!” she exclaims. “Oh, isn’t that dress cute as a button?”

 

“Oh, thank you, Vivian, you look beautiful too.”

 

Sherlock can almost see the cogs turning in Vivian’s head as she calculates the difference in prices between their respective dresses, a competition where she is clearly at an advantage although her husband’s generosity likely comes from the fact that he’s been cheating on her since the birth of their child. An unfortunate circumstance, but that doesn’t make her any less detestable. Count on human ugliness to rear its head just about anywhere.

 

“So, did you just happen to meet the infamous Mister Holmes at the bar, or did you two come together?” she asks with false coyness.

 

“We came together,” Molly replies, a tinge of pink colouring her cheeks.

 

“I thought I saw you two leave the bar early on Mary’s hen do! You vixen, why didn’t you tell us anything? Oh, but perhaps you’re waiting until things are more _official_.”

 

“It is official,” Sherlock snaps.

 

“Really? What will you tell the papers when they come calling, then?”

 

Sherlock thinks for a moment. As much as he’d like this wretched woman to shut up, he must admit she’s got a point. How could he possibly define Molly’s status? _Partner_? No, that’s John. _Fiancée_? No doubt Vivian noticed the lack of ring on Molly’s finger. _Girlfriend_? Utterly ridiculous, they’re not lovelorn teenagers. As usual, the most straightforward and logical explanation will serve best, however lacking it is in terms of romance.

 

“Molly is my _significant other_ , as I am hers,” he says. “We enjoy each other’s company. We support and help each other. She provides me with invaluable body parts and I encourage her in her scientific endeavours. When our schedules allow it, we engage in prolonged bouts of extremely satisfying sex.”

 

Molly blushes bright red now and Vivian’s jaw looks like it might dislocate, but Sherlock barrels on regardless.

 

“But more importantly, I am faithful to her and, although I may disappear once in a while or get involved in life-threatening conflicts with criminal networks, her happiness and well-being matter to me. They matter quite a bit more than anything else, in fact. And as such, I will ask you to find someone else to pester with your pointless questions.”

 

Vivian nearly chokes on her champagne and excuses herself. Sherlock turns back to Molly and is horrified to see that tears are welling in her eyes.

 

“What did I do?” he asks quickly. “Did I say something wrong again?”

 

But Molly doesn’t reply. Instead she stands up on tiptoe and plants a tender kiss just on the edge of his mouth, and Sherlock finds that’s all the answer he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to all those who commented or gave kudos to this fic, I'm so glad you enjoyed it despite it being A/U for awhile (probably the reason why I didn't describe the wedding too much, that way you can imagine it the way you want). I hope you all liked the ending, a little bit of unabashed fluff is nice once in a while :) Again, thanks for reading.


End file.
